


Sea, Ice, Land

by saltstreets



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon Timeline, Canonical Character Death, Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22603972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets/pseuds/saltstreets
Summary: Crozier takes an interest in Hartnell staying on the straight and narrow. For some reason logicked out through captainly delegation of duty, this makes him Blanky’s responsibility.
Relationships: Thomas Blanky & Captain Francis Crozier, Thomas Blanky/Thomas Hartnell
Comments: 25
Kudos: 37
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	Sea, Ice, Land

**Author's Note:**

> For my Terror Bingo square, “Thomas Hartnell”.
> 
> Once upon a time I mentioned that I low-key shipped Blanky/Hartnell, entirely on the basis of the one scene where Hartnell does some ~tracking~ on the ice and Blanky compliments him. Then Ireny and Caitlin, because they are demons, poked me into elaborating and somewhere during the resultant explanation I hypnotised myself into REALLY shipping it, and this happened.
> 
> _Hickey: Do you think Crozier sees it like that? A new Mr Hartnell?_  
>  _Hartnell: I do, yeah. And I intend to use that charter well._

“It’s as much about feeling as it is about knowing,” Blanky said almost at random, and watched Hartnell’s drawn, serious face as the man nodded in time with his words. “Just plain experience is the most part of it.” He continued in near desperation, “I’m not entirely certain what I can tell you ‘sides from that.”

“You’ve already been a great help, sir,” said Hartnell, serene.

“It’s not so much a matter of teaching,” Blanky tried, but Hartnell was about as dissuaded as an iceberg faced with a ship bearing down on its jagged edges.

“Then I suppose I’ll just have to watch quite carefully. I won’t be a bother to you, I swear it.”

Blanky didn’t disbelieve that. Hartnell wasn’t the kind of seaman who would be described as a _bother_. Blanky knew these men regardless of which ship they came from, had worked alongside them and observed them working. Hartnell was a competent sailor who got along well with his fellows. The business with Hickey and the Netsilik girl had been an unfortunate scratch on his record, but anyone could see that the lad was eager to make amends. No, Hartnell wasn’t a bother. It wasn’t Hartnell in particular that Blanky took umbrage with. It was more that he had never had any sort of apprentice before, had never wanted one. Blanky hadn’t learned his trade out of a book or at the knee of some officer with a sextant and a slate. He was _Terror’s_ Ice Master because he was fascinated by ice, and had spent more time poking, listening, marching, and freezing at, to, across, and on more of the stuff than he cared to count. Hard, cold years of experience had earned him his place. Certainly, he could parrot the technical terms and demonstrate the use of their scientific equipment, but true mastery was something else. And Blanky was no natural teacher. He knew the crannies of his own mind were winding and tangled. He had tried explaining as much when Francis had informed him that he’d like Hartnell to start learning more about the observation and navigation they did in Arctic conditions.

“I don’t know that I can teach this lad anything at all,” he had said when Francis had asked, injecting his tone with irritation to hide the uncertainty. “He’s bright enough, but I’m not quite cut out for instruction, you know.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Thomas,” said Francis calmly. “The men all look up to you already. All young Hartnell is wanting is a firm hand to keep him going safely in the proper direction.”

“Keep him occupied, you mean,” retorted Blanky. “Have you put me on nannying duty?”

“A little bit,” Francis said without an ounce of remorse. “He was helping you already, wasn’t he? With the whole.” Francis had waved a hand vaguely in the direction of Blanky’s entire person.

“I’ll assume you’re referring to the part of me that is not, in fact, present,” said Blanky dryly, “rather than me in general.”

“Yes. That.”

“I had him running up and down the rail looking at the ice and bringing me back measurements, if that’s what you mean. But mostly because he was the only one fool enough to volunteer for more duty out in the cold when I asked.”

Blanky was indeed grateful for Hartnell’s assistance during his convalescence. Being unexpectedly short one leg was no excuse to not do his job, but in the early days after the amputation he had been laid up and unable to make his own observations. Hartnell had stepped in, Blanky rather suspected out of desire to make up for his earlier transgressions, and had proven to have a keen and meticulous eye.

Francis hadn’t accepted the excuses. “And here I was thinking you were the best Ice Master in the Navy. Are you saying I’ve been working with subpar talent?”

“I’m saying no such thing,” Blanky had argued, “but that doesn’t mean I’m at all good at passing on that talent.”

It had been no use. Francis wanted Hartnell learning about ice, and so about ice Hartnell would learn. In a way it was a good sign. Francis was clear-eyed again, the sharp man Blanky knew him to be. The interest in Hartnell was a canny manoeuvre, even if it meant foisting the lad off on Blanky.

He fixed Hartnell now with a suspicious look. “Does this interest you, Hartnell?” he asked, probing. “Or are you here because Captain Crozier told you to be? I’ll not be able to tell you much if you don’t work at it, so if you’ve not got a care either way you’d best tell me now before I waste too much of both our time.”

“I like having a handle on my situations, sir,” said Hartnell. “I know my way around a ship. I worked for that and I’m proud of it. But from what Captain Crozier says, we’ll not be on these ships for very much longer, and even so we’ve not had the chance to sail in months. Seems to me that learning the ice can’t be a bad bet. So yes, I am interested.” He paused. “And the captain did seem to think I’d be useful to you.”

“The captain,” said Blanky deliberately, “has significantly more faith in my ability to pass on anything of value than I do. I’m very good at my job. I can show you how to take the measure of the pack, how to tell rotten ice from solid, and what to look for to help predict what the stuff will do next. But there’s a sense for it you’ve got to have. And I can’t promise that you will.”

“I’m not expecting promises,” Hartnell said seriously, “just ice.”

That at least, seemed to Blanky an eminently sensible sentiment.

As he had guessed Hartnell was not a bother. The only complaint that could be lodged against him was that he was perhaps a little bit more prone to solemnity around Blanky that he could have been. Blanky had seen Hartnell among his messmates, laughing and joking. But nearly a week into what Blanky supposed was an apprenticeship and Hartnell was still almost comically formal in their conversations. At first Blanky had tried to nudge him out of it with his own good cheer and familiarity, and when that hadn’t worked he had tried to jolt Hartnell into rebellion by being abrasive. But barking and grouching had just slid off Hartnell’s shoulders as a sheet of ice off canvas. It would seem that Hartnell was still feeling those twelve lashes. But Blanky didn’t want to work with a man who only spoke to _yes sir_ every request. He might have a few more gold buttons on his uniform coat these days but Blanky had come to the service as an able seaman and a whaler to boot, and he preferred a little less naval nicety in his daily doings.

The only way left to deal with the issue would be head on, and so he confronted Hartnell the next day while they were taking measurements of _Terror’s_ bow. The ice was buckling underneath the reinforced wood, but was still relentlessly pushing the prow of the ship skyward. The poor lads sleeping in the forecastle would be nearly vertical in their hammocks before long.

“We’ve got to address something,” said Blanky, propping himself up with his ice pick and putting on his most sober expression.

Hartnell stopped recording inches of ice and turned to face Blanky. There was a nervous edge to his drawn brow. “Sir?”

“Hartnell, the captain told you to assist me, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I want to make one thing clear: you’ve been doing a bang-up job of it. You’re a good listener, a sharp lad. I appreciate that very much.” The furrow in Hartnell’s brow eased somewhat, though now he just looked mostly confused. Blanky hid a smile and continued. “But frankly, you’re about as grim as a jailer and only half as amusing. I know you can crack a joke and spin a yarn, and I like a bit of an easier atmosphere if we’re to be working together, y’hear?”

Hartnell nodded cautiously. “I…will do my best. To lighten up? Sir.”

“You could stand to drop a few of the _sirs_ and whatnots while you’re at it. That’d be a good start. Don’t mind it, you’re very unlikely to offend me. Mostly I care about is what you _do_ , and how you do it.”

“It’s only-” Hartnell cut himself off and looked at Blanky uncertainly.

“Go on then,” Blanky said in what he hoped was an encouraging tone. “You’ve started to speak so you might as well finish. Otherwise I’ll just have to shake the sorry story out of ye.”

That brought a faint smile to Hartnell’s face. “I was going to say, I’m trying to make for it- make up for it. Everything. I worry I might not be able to. Captain Crozier’s been very kind. But I’ll never stop thinking about it. About what I did.”

“Going along with Hickey, you mean,” said Blanky watching Hartnell closely. Hartnell nodded. The smile had fallen away and he looked miserably guilty. Blanky sighed. “We’ve all done stupid things, and listened to stupid people. I’m sure you thought you were acting for the best.” He shifted, still trying to find the key to his new gait. “The trick of it is, if you’re going to strike out from the chain of command, you just have to be certain you’re doing it under the leadership of a man who’s got it _right._ And Hickey, unfortunately for you and young Manson, had not got it right. You mark that for next time.”

“That was not really the advice I was expecting,” said Hartnell, and Blanky was satisfied to hear an edge of dryness in his voice, in place of the usual obedient assent. Improvement already. Hartnell really was a quick learner.

He shrugged. “You made a mistake, you paid for it, you took your punishment well and we’ve moved on. We will continue to move on. Captain Crozier doesn’t hold it against you and neither do I. What I _will_ hold against you is if you continue acting as though you’re looking to win a medal for least chatty seaman onboard, and as I’m sure you’ve noticed here on _Terror_ we serve with some of the glummest men in the British Navy. So stop trying to join their ranks. That alright for you?”

Hartnell blinked and for a moment still looked uncertain. Then he smiled hesitantly. “That’s alright for me.”

“Wonderful. Now let’s finish these up so’s we can get back inside. My fingers are about to fall off.”

“Maybe it would have been better to wait and criticise my personality when we were back belowdecks,” Hartnell said, studiously focussing on his numbers. He glanced back up at Blanky and gave him a grin, a real proper grin. “Sir.”

“It’s called a pressure ridge. Two great floes of ice pushing against each other, and they form these little mountains where they meet.” Blanky sat on one of the nearer, smaller blocks and gave it a tap. “The ice we’re stood on might feel solid as land, and who knows how thick it is. Could be frozen ten, twelve feet down, I don’t know. But it’s still moving.”

“On the water.”

“Exactly. Currents, winds- we can’t feel it moving, but if we can measure the ridge, see how it grows, we can see what’s happening right beneath our feet.”

Hartnell glanced back the way they’d come, back towards the two ships in the distance. “And we’ve made another one, right under the ships, haven’t we? By breaking apart the ice.”

“Right. And that makes things all the more difficult. The ice which froze us in, the young ice, might be a foot or two thick. But a pressure ridge piles up, and can stretch quite a ways down into the water below. More and more ice, pushing the ship up away from the sea, every day. The hope would be that come spring and summer it melts and leads open back up. But it hasn’t now for two winters. That ice around the ships isn’t young ice anymore. It’s old ice. And old ice? Does not melt for nothing.”

Hartnell was still gazing back at the ships, and Blanky patted him on the back. “The captain’s right when he says we’ll be walking out. But he’s waiting, just in case. With April around the corner there’s still a chance things could open back up. Which is why,” he added, heaving himself back up to his mismatched feet, “we’ve got to keep a good eye on it all. Keep careful records. If there’s a sign the ice is dwindling, we may sail out of here yet.”

The worried look in Hartnell’s eye didn’t entirely go away but it did alleviate somewhat and Blanky nodded internally. False platitudes did nothing, but it was no use scaring the man either. Blanky had to remind himself that Hartnell might have seen loss and hardship beyond his years, but he was still dreadfully young.

They began the trudge back to the ships. Behind them, the sun and its false twins glittered innocently in the icy sky.

The ice did not melt. Blanky had not expected it to, not after two winters and cold ones at that. But seeing the columns of figures in Hartnell’s large, steady print pile up in inches and feet and a resounding _not this year_ , he still felt a pang when he had to look Francis in the eye and tell him so.

Francis only sighed and made an aborted movement with his hand across the table that Blanky realised was an instinctive reach for a glass. “Thank you, Thomas. I’ll- no, I won’t have to sleep on it. But I won’t give the order to begin preparations until tomorrow.” He looked up at the slanted ceiling of the great cabin, the long dark beams and cross planks. “I knew it was going to happen. Hell, I’ve been thinking about it for near on a year now. But it doesn’t make it easier.”

“You wouldn’t be much of a captain if you could walk away from her lightly. But it’s the right choice. You know that.”

“I do.”

Blanky sat heavily in the chair across from Francis. A worried silence fell between them and Blanky let it hover, knowing it would only worsen if he left Francis to brood alone.

The light outside began to fade slowly. Jopson would be coming around soon to light the lamps before he got started for dinner. Francis would be telling his officers the news. There would be no thaw. They would be leaving _Terror_ and _Erebus_ behind.

“It always seemed like something that happened to other captains.” Francis finally said, and laughed without humour. “I suppose I didn’t realise I _was_ other captains.”

 _I didn’t realise you were, either,_ Blanky thought but decidedly kept to himself, because he still trusted Francis further than any markings on any Royal Navy map, and then some. He had walked before. With Francis at his side the long miles to salvation seemed a much lighter burden than they had the first time.

When Francis sent him back above decks while he said his final farewell to _Terror_ Blanky allowed himself a single round, trailing a mittened hand along the rail as he stumped across the planks that must have known the sound of his footfalls even better than he himself did. The helm, the bell, the bowsprit. The corner of the hatch that Neptune had chewed and which still showed tooth marks despite all the hours of diligent holystoning. The broken yardarm on the foremast where the Tuunbaq had nearly got him. Well, nearly got _more_ of him.

When they did walk out Blanky didn’t look back. He could almost feel _Terror_ casting a pale shadow against the snow but he kept his eyes forward. It was bad luck to look back, wasn’t it? He had read that somewhere.

Hartnell was in the harness of the lead boat beside Francis. Blanky limped along, waiting his time to haul and keeping a weather eye out for any changes in the snow, the sky, the very earth turning beneath them.

He took personal pride in Francis’s turning to Hartnell for aid in following the traces left by Little’s sledge party. Hartnell gave his report on the state of the tracks in the ice brightly and with confidence, and Blanky only tacked his approval on at the end as a verification for Francis and a compliment for Hartnell. It was blatantly evident that the man was gratified by Francis relying on him and Blanky felt it was deserved. He trusted Hartnell with his work, and on top of it all he was a pleasant fellow to be about, once he’d lost the rigidness.

They had climbed up a surge of blocky ice to survey the difficult terrain across which the boats now needed to be shifted, and Blanky poked about on the unstable surface of shale and ice for a sturdy spot to plant his stick before levering himself down off the shelf. Hartnell waited patiently behind him. Blanky glanced at him over his shoulder in faint annoyance. “You’re not required to wait for me, lad. I’m slow, not incapable.” He didn’t need Hartnell standing there as if Blanky might need help clambering down.

“Of course not,” said Hartnell, unperturbed. “I’m only catching my breath.”

Blanky scowled. “Hartnell. You’re what, all of twenty? Twenty year old children do not catch their breath. That is for old cripples such as myself.”

“Twenty-four, sir,” Hartnell corrected.

Blanky glared at him, and, having found a solid spot to support his stick, hopped down. “There is no difference between twenty and twenty-four and you know it.”

Hartnell easily jumped the small distance to join him. “Well, you know me, Mister Blanky,” he said with a grin, “I’m fragile.”

Blanky didn’t dignify that with a response, only a scoff as he turned to stride lopsidedly back towards the boats. Hartnell followed on his heels in his own easy lope, ice pick swinging cheerily at his side. He was in a fine mood today, Blanky thought, watching him out of the corner of his eye. Hartnell had a naturally melancholy cast to his face, but when he smiled he did light right up.

He slowed his step minutely to fall in beside Hartnell and clapped him on the back. “You’ve done well today, with the tracks,” he said, and was rewarded with another smile.

“Thanks to your taking the time with me.”

“Not at all.” Blanky shook his head. “I meant what I told you those months ago, and I meant what I told Crozier just now. You’ve got a real feel for it. Teaching’s only the one part.”

“That doesn’t stop me from being grateful. I’ve been proud, Mister Blanky. To work with you.” Hartnell touched his cap, still smiling, and Blanky felt a warm glow. He must be getting soft in his ancient years. But in the Arctic, warmth of any kind could only be welcomed, so he let himself enjoy the smile, and the gratitude.

Hartnell had a natural talent for the thing, that was certain. Back in the early days of the expedition he had been one of the first to spot the pack, creeping up on them like a cat stalking a rabbit. Blanky remembered that early morning, scampering up the rigging to join Hartnell who had only handed him a glass with a wordless touch of his forehead. He’d had two good legs, and Hartnell had only been a name and a face then. Things did have a habit of changing.

The first few steps on the shale after so long hauling over ice felt strange, and the click of stone was jarringly loud in comparison to the soft stumbling or squeaking of snow. It was bizarre. It was land. Blanky let out a whoop. At his side Francis was grinning and then laughing, and against his better judgement Blanky felt something akin to hopeful.

The past few evenings the camp had gone up slowly as the men had tired, but having reached land and found their fellows waiting for them there was a marked spring in everyone’s step and the tents were popping up quickly like large, ungainly mushrooms. He saw Hartnell corralling a little group of men wrestling with a collection of poles and canvas, and stumped over to lend a hand.

Hartnell nodded as Blanky approached, and handed him one of the support poles. “The men are in a fine mood tonight, sir.”

“No more ice.” Blanky grinned, heaving the pole into position. “You’ll be glad to see the back of it too, no doubt.”

“It’ll be less interesting on the rocks, though,” Hartnell said lightly. “All flat, with no fascinating massive surges for us to sweat our way up and over, no fiddly patches between crevices where you feel you might trip and slide right away into the centre of the Earth with a misstep. Boring, I’d say.”

“Dull as dirt,” Blanky agreed. “Good to hear you’ve grown so fond of suffering and danger. That’s the proper attitude for any Arctic expedition.”

“It’s also been a fine time working with you. As I said earlier.” The poles locked in place and Hartnell began uncoiling the guylines to attach to the canvas.

Blanky gave the frame a kick, satisfied that it was sturdy. “Oh, don’t think you’re getting rid of me so easily. Might not be as much ice to poke at but there’s still tracks to find, men to keep in line. Weather to watch, maybe game to hunt if we’re lucky. I didn’t spend all that time getting used to you only to have you scamper off the second we hit dry land.”

They finished pitching the tent and Blanky left Hartnell in high spirits. He took his meal in the command tent with Francis and the officers and the atmosphere was near jovial. Fitzjames even managed to crack no less than three separate jokes which made Francis laugh, Blanky noting the high flush of pleasure on Fitzjames’s face at the reaction and having to conceal a grin by pretending to truly relish his salted pork soaked in unmentionable grey gravy. When he hunkered down that night, unstrapping his wooden leg and tucking the canvas sacking right up under his chin, he even slipped quickly into the first wave of what was certain to be a satisfying slumber when there was a shuffling from outside the tent and Hartnell’s voice, pitched to be quiet but carrying, called his name.

“What’s it?” Blanky responded through his tired haziness, his mouth moving almost automatically even as his mind teetered on the cusp of blissful unconsciousness. “Hartnell?”

The tent flap was pushed open and Hartnell entered, though he stopped short upon seeing Blanky as he was, obviously already bedded down for the evening.

“’as something happened?” Blanky asked, the bleariness of sleep falling away almost immediately as he sat up. “Tell me.”

“No, nothing like that.” Hartnell looked apologetic. “Sorry, I didn’t realise you were already asleep.”

“Only just dropped off. I don’t mind.” Strangely, he found that he really didn’t. Hartnell had earned some special privileges, Blanky supposed. One of which was apparently the ability to wake him up in a non-emergency without incurring ire. “Something on your mind?”

“Ah. Em. Yes.”

On the other side of the tent, Reid grumbled something in his sleep and rolled over, the scrape of stiff cloth rustling in the small confines of the tent. Blanky glanced at him, but the other ice master was still blissfully blind and deaf to the world.

Hartnell took an aborted step forward, and then retreated again. “I was thinking earlier tonight and then, and- no, I’m sorry, sir. It can wait until morning.”

But Blanky’s curiosity had been nudged now. “Never had the patience for serialised stories, Hartnell. Just tell me now.”

Hartnell seemed decidedly nervous. “It’s like this, you see- I was about to turn in with the other lads I share a tent with, and I thought, well, I was wondering, or rather-”

As though his remark about serial publications had summoned a minor demon into their immediate vicinity, it was just then that the wailing began. Hartnell turned sharply towards the source outside, and then back at Blanky.

“Later,” said Blanky, every instinct telling him that this was no happy disturbance. “Go see what it is. I’ve got to get this blasted leg on and I’ll follow you. Quick, now!”

Later Blanky watched Hartnell help carry away the awful, sad remains of John Morfin, and wondered what it was he had been trying to ask in the tent. But then was no time to pursue the point, and when Blanky woke the next morning he had put the matter out of his mind, and Hartnell did not return to the subject as they took temperature readings and tried to find elusive tell-tale signs of burrowing voles in the shale.

“Warmer again today,” Hartnell remarked, setting down the mercury. “Can we at last call it a steady increase?” It was a point of contention between them. Hartnell was prone to calling any rise in temperature over three or more days an increase, while Blanky refused to see a trend over anything less than a full week. “It’s seven days today.”

“Well it’s spring. What do you expect.”

“I expect a steady increase,” Hartnell chirped, and laughed when Blanky kicked a piece of shale at his ankle.

“Fine. You’ve got your increase. The sun is doing its bloody job once more at last. Go give the weather report to the captain, would you?”

He watched Hartnell head off towards the command tent and thought reluctantly to himself that Francis had had a point, all that time ago. Hartnell’s aptitude aside, it was nice to have someone to do the running and carrying. And Hartnell was a good sort. Blanky had seen him the previous night helping an obviously distraught Goodsir to his feet, making sure he’d gotten back to his tent without trouble. Blanky’s heart twinged a bit at the thought. Goodsir was one of the more dependable men they had left.

Morfin had also been a dependable man, once upon a time. What would become of them all, when the very food they needed to live was killing them? It was like a bad joke, told in poor taste by someone with rotten comedic timing. Blanky indulged in a few blasphemous thoughts as to who that Someone might be, and felt marginally better.

Hartnell didn’t return for a time. Francis must have kept him, or he’d gotten distracted by something needing his attention. With a rare moment to himself, Blanky took out his tobacco pouch and fingered through what he had left, taking careful stock of the strands and calculating how many more pipes he had before it was gone. It wasn’t a reassuring sum, but it wasn’t so dire as it might have been.

Perhaps Goodsir would appreciate a pipe and a friendly word. The poor man really had seemed quite rattled by the night’s misfortunes and Blanky couldn’t blame him. Yes, Goodsir could use a few settling words right now. He had done more than his fair share for the rest of the men. Blanky could spare a pipe to cheer the fellow.

When he pushed through the flap of the medical tent however, he found Goodsir occupied. With Hartnell.

“Ah, here you are.” Blanky stopped, taking in the scene before him fully. Hartnell, on the table with his shirt off and Goodsir applying something to his back with fastidious care. “Everything alright?”

“Just my back, sir,” Hartnell said somewhat unhelpfully, and so Blanky stumped around to take a look at what Goodsir was doing.

Hartnell’s back was criss-crossed with pale scars from the old lashing, some raised and some smooth, but what was most concerning was the manner in which a few of the scars looked cracked open, with fluid that could be seen weeping from the skin.

Blanky frowned. Hartnell hadn’t been too brutally lashed, as far as he could remember. And that was months ago now. “Why haven’t these healed yet?”

“They did, but I’m afraid the scars are reopening in places,” said Goodsir, blotting at the wounds with a salted cloth. Hartnell hissed through his teeth, nose wrinkling in discomfort. “A symptom of scurvy, though as a matter of fact Mister Hartnell is doing quite well in terms of health. As I have told him.” Goodsir added with a reassuring smile at Hartnell, who smiled back weakly. “But the body’s ability to heal is greatly reduced in these circumstances. The best we can do is help it along by keeping the opened scars clean and dry. Ideally heavy labour would also be avoided, but.” Goodsir grimaced. “That’s not possible at the moment.”

“I’m alright, it’s not too bad,” said Hartnell, pulling his shirt back on. The raw lashes vanished from view under the stained white fabric. “Doctor Goodsir has been taking fine care of me.”

“I can talk to the captain, have you put on a lighter hauling rotation,” Blanky said quietly once they had left the tent. “You just have to ask.”

But Hartnell was already shaking his head. “No, no need. I’m still miles better off than some of the lads in those harnesses, I’m doing just fine.”

Blanky eyed him for a moment. “If you’re certain. But I won’t have you collapsing out there because you’re too much a fool not to know when you need to treat yourself kindly, d’you hear? I need you up and about.”

That seemed to please Hartnell. “I’ll do my best.”

“I’m an old man with one leg. If you up and die and make me go back to doing all the fetching and carrying for myself I’ll not be well pleased.”

“Of course, sir.”

“I mean it, Hartnell.”

“I wouldn’t want to put you out, sir.”

“No you bloody well wouldn’t,” grumbled Blanky. But he was sure Hartnell could see the smile playing at the corner of his mouth, and made no effort to hide it.

It would turn out to be the last cheerful exchange he had with Hartnell for some time, and having covered the topics of a lashing, scurvy, and possible death Blanky supposed it was a good indicator of how the definition of what constituted ‘cheerful’ had been altered somewhat in the past months. But in comparison to the hours that followed it was positively sunny.

Irving. Farr. Hickey. It was a confused tale and it put Blanky’s hackles up. Even more so when they trekked out to where the Netsilik family had been killed- the _family._ Seeing the bodies was chilling, as was the thought that these people had been killed without compunction by men among whom he had ate, slept, worked, and joked for years. Beside him he could see Hartnell very pale, gripping the stock of his rifle.

“I don’t like this business, Mister Blanky,” Hartnell said tightly. “There’s something wrong about it.” He had been staring at Mr. Hickey’s back with a distrustful dislike and Blanky gently turned him away.

“We’ve got to get a better picture of what happened before anything.” He put a reassuring hand on Hartnell’s arm. “But I’ve also got the feeling I won’t much like the truth when it comes out. And I can say the captain’s in our same boat as well.”

As though the situation had still been too easy, the fog descended and all went to chaos. Blanky would later recall the events of the evening in disturbed flashes, eerily lit by the sliver of Arctic sun and the lantern light refracting strangely in the mist. He remembered Francis shouting and Hickey’s high, mocking voice, Jopson throwing him a rifle and the sound of men screaming, canvas tearing and the awful clatter of claws on shale as the Tuunbaq ripped through the camp.

It was like Carnivale all over again, with fewer flames and more bear. Blanky tried to keep track of the creature while looking frantically for Francis, for Fitzjames, and keeping himself alive as well. There was blood all over the rocks, and when it was done he was shaking from exhaustion, wanting nothing more than to sink to the ground, unstrap the wooden leg from his aching stump and fling the damned thing away before sleeping for a month.

He kept moving. Jopson, helping Bridgens carry a keening sailor with half his torso torn open. Francis and Fitzjames, searching the wreckage of the tents and stamping out smouldering canvas.

He saw Hartnell before the prow of one of the boats, looking shaken but still clutching a rifle and standing firmly in front of the men taking shelter there. “Tom. You alright there?” he called, hopping over swiftly. “Did it come this way?”

“I’m alright,” Hartnell called back, lowering the rifle. “It was charging us ‘til that rocket came. Whoever fired it might have saved our lives.”

“That’ll be Commander Fitzjames you can thank. He’s driven it off, far as I can tell.” As Blanky drew nearer he could see that Hartnell’s face was pale. He peered at him closely and putting a hand on Hartnell’s shoulder while adding in an undertone, “Are you certain you’re unhurt? And I’m not just talking about scratches and hits.”

Hartnell met his gaze and nodded after a moment. Blanky could feel the taught muscles of Hartnell’s shoulder relax under his fingers. “Yes. I’m fine. We’re all fine.”

“Good.” He glanced at the men shivering about the boat. “Coast’s clear, lads. Time to see what price has been paid.”

Reluctantly the assembled crew emerged from the meagre shelter of the boat and began to put themselves back together. The sudden quiet of the camp was at once reassuring and unsettling. The Tuunbaq was gone, but it had torn a great hole in its wake.

“Mister Blanky.”

Blanky turned to see Hartnell had stopped a few steps back and was staring at the rifle in his hands.

“I saw its eyes, the creature. When it was charging us. Saw it coming right at me. I was about to fire when the rocket struck. But I don’t think my rifle would have done anything ‘sides make it more angry.” He looked up at Blanky and there was fear there. “I’ve not been so frightened in a long time. I’m still surprised I’m not dead. If that rocket hadn’t come at just that right second, I would be.”

“But you’re not.” Blanky stumped over, grabbing out for the rifle to sling it over his own shoulder before taking Hartnell’s hands in his own. “You’re alive, y’hear me? You stood your ground. Kept those men safe. No point in wondering what could be, would be, anything of that sort. You’ll only go mad that way.” He gave a reassuring squeeze. “C’mon now. There’s a great bloody mess to clean up and I don’t want to do it all myself.” He chivvied Hartnell along with a gentle tug.

“It doesn’t make much sense to be shaken up by this now,” Hartnell admitted, allowing himself to be pulled along, “seeing as we’ve faced the creature before and have been in so many tight spots besides. I’m acting a fool.”

“You’re not acting a fool. Anyone’d be rattled.”

“You wouldn’t. The thing chased you up the foremast, chewed off your leg, and you still went running after it with Lieutenant Jopson just now. I saw.”

“First of all, it didn’t chew my leg off. Is that what people think? It ripped me up good and proper and Doctor MacDonald had to do a bit of quick work with his saw.”

Hartnell didn’t look as though the distinction had made any impression on him. “The leg still came off.”

“I suppose. But it never had me in its jaws. And secondly, Hartnell, when you’re as old and as bad-tempered as I am, and have nearly died from your own stupidity enough times, you get a bit tired of the whole thing. Come here.” He opened his arms and wrapped Hartnell in a bear hug which Hartnell returned without hesitation.

“You did a fine job,” Blanky said firmly, “and you should only be proud of yourself.” He clapped Hartnell on the back and rubbed a comforting little circle there.

“I don’t think you’re bad-tempered, sir,” said Hartnell, voice muffled into Blanky’s shoulder.

“That’s because you have an extraordinary tolerance for being shouted at. It’s probably why Francis gave you to me.” Hartnell laughed and Blanky released him. “We’ll go on, yeah?”

Hartnell nodded. “Lead the way.”

The failed hanging, the reappearance of the Tuunbaq, and the departure of Hickey and his cabal all in terrible feverish succession had been as grape shot against the fragile hull of collective crew morale, and the men moved now through the wreckage of the camp like lost children unable to understand what had happened.

In the face of this hollow shock Hartnell proved invaluable, going tirelessly to and fro, rallying and martialling as well as any officer. Blanky had his own concerns to deal with in preparation for setting out again, not to mention the private worry that had been slowly crawling its way up his thigh. He had yet to tell anyone. Goodsir perhaps would have been the first option, and now that option had been stolen from him. So he went about, and tried not to imagine that he could almost feel the green-grey fingers extending across his flesh.

The camp was being dissembled -or further dissembled, and more orderly this time- when Blanky found Hartnell standing at the entrance of the medical tent staring into its empty depths. “I was looking for Mister Bridgens,” he said when Blanky approached.

“I believe he was taking inventory with Peglar by the boats. Why? For your back?”

Hartnell nodded. “I won’t interrupt them,” he said diplomatically, and Blanky thought not for the first time that Hartnell had a commendable understanding of his crewmates. “It’s not that important.”

“I could take a look,” Blanky offered. “Save you and Bridgens the trouble later.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want-”

Blanky waved away the objection. “Don’t bother with any of that nonsense now. Go on, sit down.” He gestured towards the bench within the tent and Hartnell obediently sat. “I may not know much but I know what a lashing looks like when it goes wrong. So off with this.”

Hartnell pulled his woolly knit over his head, his hair sticking out in every direction like dirty straw when he re-emerged. “Were you ever lashed?” He coughed, embarrassed. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Don’t mind it.” Blanky limped around and tugged the back of Hartnell’s shirt out from his belt. “Yeah, twice. Once when I was still on the whaler, for a stupid trick. We had a great big midsection of one of the beasties out on deck. I knew one of my mates had a starboard watch that day, near where the rib cage was partially exposed. So being the bright sparks we were, me and another boy climbed inside, nice and hidden, and leapt out at him from the whale when he passed by, with horrible yells and everything. ‘Cept it wasn’t our friend, it was the second mate who had happened to just come out on deck.” The shirt was sticking in places to Hartnell’s back, either from sweat or fluid Blanky couldn’t be certain. He lifted it gently, marking when Hartnell hissed in pain. “I’ve never heard a man shout so loud. He nearly went over the railing with fear, too. Perhaps not worth the ten lashes we both got for it, but we were fifteen or so. You know, fools.”

Hartnell snorted. “I’m aware.”

“Of course you’re aware. You were fifteen about ten days ago.”

“Still twenty-four, sir.”

“The second time,” Blanky continued, ignoring him, “was when I had just joined the Navy. And that was for impertinence to a senior officer. Much more intentional, much less amusing.” He peeled the shirt up carefully, noticing each place where the damp lacerations had stuck to the fabric. Hartnell was keeping himself very still, knuckles white over clenched fists.

“Easy now,” Blanky murmured, “nearly off. There you go. Now, did the doctor tell you to do anything in particular?”

“Just to keep them clean. But to be honest, I don’t know how much sense there is in it.”

Blanky looked at Hartnell sharply. “And what makes you say that?”

Hartnell shrugged. “A bit like shutting the stable door after the steed has been stolen, don’t you think?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Doctor Goodsir said you were in fine fettle, didn’t he? You’ll be alright.”

“Doctor Goodsir wasn’t so sick himself,” Hartnell pointed out. “But he’s gone now as well. Wasn’t the scurvy that got him, or even the bear. There’s too much out here trying to kill us.”

It sounded far too much like a thought that Blanky had repeatedly had before. His stump twinged painfully as though to remind him. But it wasn’t right, coming from Hartnell. Hartnell, who smiled easily and was ever happy for the slightest bit of praise when it was given him.

“You leave that sort of worrying to me and the captain,” said Blanky gruffly, giving Hartnell a cuff on the upper arm, though he was careful to avoid the tail end of a deep gouge from a strike that had wrapped itself around Hartnell’s shoulder. He examined the opening scars, keeping an eye for any that seemed to be going septic. After all, he knew intimately what that would look like. But Hartnell’s back seemed neat enough, just much more red and raw than one would expect from a whipping that had taken place half a year before. A few of the deeper cuts oozed slightly, but blessedly only a sickly pale yellow rather than green, or black. The stump of his leg throbbed agonisingly again. He ignored it.

“Did you learn, sir?” Hartnell asked.

“What’s that?”

“Did you learn. From being lashed, I mean.”

Blanky considered. “Not really. Would have taken a lot more than ten lashes to beat the impertinence out of me. Luckily Captain Crozier appreciates my _wit_.”

He swept a light hand across Hartnell’s shoulder blade, feeling the places where the scar tissue was safely solid, and the places where it had begun cracking open, taking care to be gentle. Hartnell made a small, bitten-off sound and Blanky frowned. “If it’s bothering you that much we can likely dig up something for the pain. We’ve still got some laudanum, maybe even coca wine.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Hartnell said, sounding strained. “That’s- it’s alright. How does it look?”

Blanky squinted suspiciously at the back of his head but let it drop. “Seems alright. Less than half of the scars are open, and only a few of those in any serious way. We’ll dry them off and have you back to rights.”

He took up a piece of shredded linen from the too-rapidly dwindling pile of medical supplies the camp had left and began dabbing gently at Hartnell’s back, taking care all the while not to agitate the wounds. Goodsir had been correct in his assessment. Apart from the opening scars Hartnell did seem in good health. His spine and ribs were perhaps a bit too visible beneath his pale skin, but he was free from the dark, tell-tale bruises which splashed across so many of the men. Blanky knew too that when Hartnell smiled he still had the greater number of his teeth, and his gums were a safe pink rather than stained grey with lead. No, Hartnell would keep. Far worse along the line was Blanky’s own little problem. Only a matter of time before concealing the slow decay happening above the roughly hewn wooden leg became impossible. But Hartnell at the least would do alright for himself, if cold or creature or mutinous bastards didn’t get to him first.

Almost subconsciously Blanky stroked a thumb over the back of Hartnell’s neck, across the grimy strands of hair there. He was in need of a good long bath, as they all were. But he was still solidly, reliably here. He shivered under Blanky’s hand.

“Alright,” Blanky said, noticing, “you can get your knits back on. Wouldn’t want for you to catch your death of cold, and all my fine reassurances to go to waste.” He tugged the shirt back down.

“Wonderful,” Hartnell muttered, hunched forward in on himself.

“Here you go.” Blanky chucked the woolly pile at Hartnell, catching him in the face. “Ha!”

“Sir,” said Hartnell reproachfully, pulling it on over his head and reaching up to flatten his hair back down. He stood up from the bench and stretched, spine cracking. “Are the men packing already?”

“Just started when I found you. Ought to go lend a hand. And perhaps get Bridgens in here to sort all these bottles and things. I suppose he’s our doctor now.”

Blanky went to give Hartnell a little push towards the tent flap, and quite without warning, Hartnell kissed him.

It was only a dry kiss placed on Blanky’s mouth. His lips were cracked, and the callused tips of his fingers where they fluttered uncertainly against Blanky’s cheek were rough and rubbed raw from labour in the cold. It wasn’t a passionate kiss, but it was a kiss all the same, and not a merely friendly one. It was a questioning kiss, a wondering kiss. And perhaps it was only that Blanky hadn’t been kissed, hadn’t even _thought_ about being kissed in quite some time, but that brief catch of warm proximity to Hartnell as he leaned in, the puff of foreign breath against Blanky’s cheek, was a headier rush than even some of the more enthusiastic necking he had done in his time.

It also wasn’t a long kiss. Hartnell pulled away almost immediately with a sharp intake of air.

“Er,” he said, flicking his gaze between Blanky’s eyes with something approaching horror as his pale face went as red as a marine’s coat, “Uh. I should. There’s. A thing."

He beat a hasty retreat from the tent, leaving Blanky blinking in surprise.

“Ha,” Blanky said, with equal eloquence, taken aback and thoughtful. He stayed there in the abandoned medical tent for a moment longer. The wind whistled through the fraying canvas, humming among the little bottles and steel knives left behind there. He was still holding the piece of cloth he had used to clean Hartnell’s back with. He folded it in half and set it down on the bench. He thought about Hartnell, and warm skin beneath his fingers, and Hartnell again. Then he went back outside to see what still needed to be done.

Blanky didn’t see much of Hartnell for a little while after that. Well, that wasn’t entirely accurate. It was difficult not to see a man when you and he were two out of only thirty or so straggling skeletons limping along a barren land with no end in sight. Blanky saw Hartnell plenty, but Hartnell seemed to have acquired the skill of slithering away every time Blanky tried to accost him. It was admittedly rather impressive how good he had suddenly become at avoidance.

It got to the point where even Francis noticed something was off, and Francis was deeply preoccupied with a slew of more pressing matters such as his dying second and this interminable march across the cold Arctic waste.

“Is all well with Thomas Hartnell?” he asked one evening after making camp. Blanky was sitting on a crate in Francis’ tent, carefully putting unlovely but effective stitches through a hole in the knee of his trousers. “Only I’ve become accustomed to seeing him at your side, and he hasn’t been of late.”

“Nothing wrong as far’s I know of it,” Blanky replied, giving away nothing. “He’s always busy. The men look up to him. He takes charge quite a bit.”

It wasn’t a lie. Hartnell was certainly respected. And he was certainly busy.

“Hm,” said Francis doubtfully, but let the matter drop.

Blanky was no fool, he was well aware of what some men got up to with each other. He had nothing against it, had even had a dalliance or two of his own in the past. He hadn’t pinned Hartnell as that sort, but it was a difficult thing to be sure of, particularly at sea where circumstances could sweep away many things a man thought he knew about himself.

What was more puzzling was what Hartnell could possibly be wanting with _him,_ Thomas Blanky. He was twice as old as Hartnell for one thing, and had half the number of legs for another. Their party had been drastically reduced from the original count of men from England, but surely if Hartnell was in search of a willing body to keep him warm or take the edge off of their current situation he would have been able to have his pick from the lot of them. Even unwashed and exhausted Hartnell was still handsome.

But for whatever reason he had kissed Blanky.

Blanky wasn’t entirely certain what he thought of the whole thing. He was fond of Hartnell to be sure, but he was fond of a good many people. He considered. It was nice to embrace Hartnell. He fit satisfyingly in Blanky’s arms. He had a good laugh too, a bright peal that always sounded slightly surprised out of him. Blanky always felt accomplished when he could make Hartnell laugh, as he did with Francis.

He fell asleep that night thinking about the kiss and when he awoke, he was still thinking about it, with the fading image of Hartnell’s serious eyes in his head.

“Ah,” he said aloud, and then, because that hadn’t quite seemed to cover it, “Ha.” Curious, that. But there wasn’t much time to ponder about it. He could hear clinking and clanking outside the tent around him as the camp began to creak back to life. In a minute he would need to be back among it, preparing for the coming hours of monotonous, brutal walking.

Blanky tended to be the up-and-out sort. Once he was awake he did not linger. But just for once, he remained a moment longer in the warm cocoon of smelly furs and canvas that he had constructed on his cot, and let himself indulge in his own thoughts.

That day’s march was a short one. Blanky didn’t see Fitzjames go into his tent but Francis followed right after. The outlook did not seem to bright. Perhaps they would be encamped for some time, until Fitzjames was strong enough to travel once more, or. Well. Or.

Perhaps it was that dreadful dangling _or_ that prompted the thought, and perhaps it was simply that Francis was preoccupied and Blanky liked a bit of company with his tin plate of lukewarm, lead-split mystery meat, but whatever the reason when supper time rolled around he fetched two servings and went looking for Hartnell.

Hartnell was still supervising the unpacking of one of the sledges, looking tired and put-upon. Blanky pushed a plate into his hands and took him by the arm towards a small stack of crates. “Here,” he said, “sit. You look as though you haven’t stopped moving since you woke. Eat something. The men can deal with themselves.”

He watched Hartnell dig in with a warm satisfaction. It couldn’t make their rations taste good, but the sludge went down easier when he didn’t have to pick through it alone.

When the sounds of chewing had given way to the sounds of spoons scraping tin, Hartnell broke silence. “Mister Blanky, about the other day-”

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t like. I’ll forget it if you prefer,” said Blanky kindly, before adopting a cynical squint. “Although I’ve never been left in the lurch like that before, I’m nearly taking it as an insult, to be loved and leaved.”

Hartnell choked on a laugh, although his cheeks were once more bright red under the white patches of frostbite that bloomed across his skin like mould. He scratched the side of his head in a sheepish fashion. “I’m not expecting anything,” he said awkwardly. “I lost my head a bit. I’d mostly just rather not be whipped for it.”

“I wouldn’t- for Christ’s sake, Hartnell. Even if we weren’t long, _long_ past the point where the details of naval discipline still mattered more‘n a rat’s arse, I wouldn’t have you whipped, fucking hell. Give me a bit of credit.” Blanky glared, setting down his empty plate so that he could put his hands on his hips, challenging. “Mostly I’m doubtful as to what you were getting into there. You have seen me, yes? _Smelled_ me?”

“None of us are very appealing at the moment,” Hartnell argued back. “I suppose I just _like_ you, sir.”

“Alright, you can cut that sir nonsense if you’re going to be going about saying sweet things such as you _like_ me,” Blanky said sarcastically, before the actual meaning of what Hartnell had said had fully sunk in. He blinked. “And- I suppose, then, while we’re at it, I’ll have you know I’m passing fond of you, as well.”

The dazzling smile that the simple, half-teasing statement drew was incredible to see. Hartnell was really getting very good at deciphering Blanky’s intentions. “That’s- very kind of you to say.”

“I’m known for my generosity of spirit.” Blanky hesitated. “It’s not precisely the ideal timing for a grand romance,” he warned.

“You don’t need to be so practical about it. Timing can’t always be planned in advance.”

“It ought to be.”

“Can’t help you there.” Hartnell’s brow furrowed. “I really don’t need anything, you know. I’m not looking for anything in particular. But I guess I didn’t want to say nothing, neither.”

Blanky softened. Good Lord, but he really didn’t have many defences against Hartnell these days, did he. “I’m not sure anything can even _be_ given. That’s alright then.” He reached out and laid his hand over Hartnell’s where it rested on his knee. “You’re alright.”

“Yes?”

“I must be losing my head quicker than I thought, but yes.”

“I did also say I didn’t think you were bad-tempered. If you want another sweet thing,” Hartnell supplied, his tone rising slowly back up from worried to its customary sly cheer that he employed when joking.

“I might just swoon.”

“I would catch you.”

“Christ,” Blanky muttered.

Just then Jopson called for Hartnell and the man had the audacity to wink at Blanky before hurrying off, to which Blanky could only make a rude gesture that had no impact whatsoever on the beaming smile on Hartnell’s face.

Blanky himself walked away feeling quite buoyant. Supper was nearing its end although he had yet to spot Francis. The man was probably still in the tent with Fitzjames, doing whatever could still be done. Blanky’s good humour slipped slightly as he thought about it, but those were the decisions for Francis to make. Blanky would only support him in whichever course he set upon, as he always had.

Lieutenant Little was sat near the command tent, fiddling with something in his hands and when Blanky caught his eye he only shrugged. No news then.

He found himself wondering what Hartnell was doing, and wasn’t that rather something. Blanky was a social sort, but he had also always been perfectly content in his own company. The desire to seek out Hartnell specifically so they could simply share some down time was unusual, a sentiment typically reserved for Francis and Francis alone.

As if the man had been summoned by the thought, he saw Francis emerging from one of the tents. They all looked the same, yellowing canvas stained with salt and dirt, but Blanky knew to whom the tent belonged. Or, he thought with a lurch as he took in the ruined, split-open expression on Francis’s face, to whom the tent had once belonged.

“Thomas,” Francis rasped, walking towards him unsteadily.

Blanky darted forward and let Francis stumble into his arms. There was a sinking in his stomach that matched the dull pulse of blood he could feel at the end of his stump and in the silent shaking of Francis’s shoulders as he clutched at Blanky. He hadn’t wound his watch since they’d abandoned _Terror_ , but if he had it surely would have ticked in time with that same dreadful rhythm, counting away the seconds as they vanished behind them.

They buried Fitzjames the next morning. Blanky wasn’t entirely certain what the man’s last moments had been like, and Francis hadn’t said. It hadn’t been easy. That much was obvious.

All throughout the preparations for moving on Francis had a lost, almost dazed look in his eye that Blanky hated to see. It was almost a relief to get the news that the Tuunbaq had been sighted again. It was a problem at which Francis could throw his mind, one which could take his thoughts away from the man who should have been right there beside him, but who no longer was.

Almost a relief. Mostly it just made Blanky feel worse about what he had to say to Francis next.

Hartnell was standing by one of the sledges when Blanky made his way back with Francis. Presumably Fitzjames had been properly hidden from view, sunk into the shale and made part of the landscape. Blanky felt an odd kinship with the man: they were both making Francis Crozier walk away from them.

He caught Hartnell’s eye and saw the question there. “I need a hand,” was all he said. “Got to get some things together."

To his credit, Hartnell didn’t protest anything Blanky needed. He dug out the rope from the bottom of one of the sledges, and dutifully found the small wooden chest that held the battered cutlery. Blanky had to laugh when he saw it. “Makes you wonder why the devil we’ve been hauling all this. Only about thirty of us left, but a hundred forks, knives, and spoons. That’s true English logic for you.”

“Just the forks, you said?”

“Just the forks. Spoons too round, knives too flat. Forks, just right.” He watched as Hartnell poured them with a clatter into a small canvas sack and tied it off. “Thanks.”

Hartnell did break, then. “If I ask, how likely is it that I won’t enjoy the answer?”

“I’d say that would depend on how sick of me you’ve gotten these past months, but we cleared that one up last night quite well,” Blanky said candidly. “So.”

Hartnell’s expression had been teetering between neutral and worried; now it fell and shattered. “I was- worried it might be something like that.” He took a slow step back and let himself lean against the boat. “Damn.”

“That about sums it up, yeah.”

“ _Damn,_ ” said Hartnell again with an attempt at a laugh that slid right off once more into distress. “For certain, then. This isn’t- is this one of those stupidities you mentioned that you might die from? Or might not?” He didn’t wait for the answer, just took in the look on Blanky’s face and exhaled a long, shaking breath. “Oh.”

“You’ll be alright, Tom,” Blanky said, and hoped it was true. “Just stick by Francis, alright? To keep an eye on him, I mean. I’ve been making sure he doesn’t do anything too idiotic for years now. If I’m honest, I’m a bit worried what’ll happen to the man without me.”

Hartnell forced a watery smile. “You can count on me.”

For a rare instant Blanky was uncertain what to do. He clapped Hartnell on the shoulder. “You’ll be alright,” he said again. “Wish I could tell you more than that, but. Can’t tell much of anything, not anymore.”

“I told you I wasn’t expecting any promises,” Hartnell said, not quite meeting Blanky’s eye. Blanky tightened his grip on Hartnell’s shoulder. “I did say that all that time ago. I don’t expect any now, either.”

“Just ice.” Blanky completed. “There was no shortage of that at least. So I suppose I haven’t entirely let you down.”

Hartnell did look up at that. “You haven’t let me down at all.” His eyes were very bright. Blue and honest, as they always were. They were rather beautiful as well, Blanky thought. Hartnell was rather beautiful. He didn’t deserve this, out here being run down to the bone and filled back up with nothing but lead and scurvy and cold. None of them did. Well, maybe a few. But not really.

“The night Morfin died,” Hartnell said quietly, “when I came to your tent. I’d intended to ask if you’d like to share a cot.” He twisted a finger in the edge of Blanky’s overcoat. “It was very cold that night. The lads were all in a pile and I thought of you in your tent, and how I wanted to keep you warm. Stupid maybe. But it’s what I wanted.”

“And so you came to make the offer?”

Hartnell shrugged self-consciously. “I figured I’d try my luck, felt I could get away with it. And you know as well as I that Reid could sleep through a hurricane.” He snorted, and then sighed. “We’d had such a good day. Until we didn’t, anymore. So many times it went that way, didn’t it? And now again. You were right about the timing, I think.”

“I’m usually right. You should know that by now.”

They were for the moment quite alone. The men were mostly gathered by the other boat, listing about for their last few moments before once more taking up their condemned march. Francis was with Little a ways away, presumably telling him what Blanky had planned. But ah hell, what did Blanky care either way. He was old and dying and walking out into the belly of the beast, presumably in a very literal fashion. And Hartnell was here and standing very close and was handsome and alive.

And Hartnell had kissed him. Blanky had never liked leaving scales unbalanced.

“Come here,” he said, and Hartnell did.

The party began to move once more. Hartnell was pulling in the harness of the second boat and Blanky watched him for a moment, marking the assured motion. He was one of the stronger men still; he would be alright. As much as any of them would. Francis would take care of him.

Francis himself was standing aside, turning away from the men. It was bad luck to look back but Blanky met Francis’ eye anyways and nodded. He wasn’t even sure they had any more room for further bad luck. It had all already occurred. In any case Hartnell didn’t turn back: he was still pulling, eyes forward. Blanky nodded approvingly, and headed back towards the ice.


End file.
